Seven Stories
by Invaderk
Summary: Seven short oneshots of various genres and pairings, each written according to a prompt.
1. Chapter 1

A/n: Greetings, earthlings! Back when I first joined the Criminal Minds community on LiveJournal, I promised the first seven people a story of their choosing. Whatever ships, situations, or really anything that they could possibly want. Now, I wrote almost all of them at once, and then never posted them because I was supposed to finish the next chapter of Transposition first... and as you can see, I've caved. They were only supposed to be 500 words maximum, but I broke that rule for every single one. As they are short stories, I acknowledge that some may seem underdeveloped.

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Criminal Minds, CBS, any referenced media or any affiliates. I do not even own the ideas for these stories.

So, enjoy these seven stories (or at least one of them)!

**Warnings: **

- Spoilers for all of season 1-5 are fair game. Nothing from Season 6 (seeing has it hasn't come out yet...!)

- Some of these stories contain one or more of the following, as per requested: Slash, violence, drunken shenanigans, mentions of drug abuse, and the Power Rangers. If any of these things bother you, then beware! However, none of these stories contain graphic sexual situations or images.

* * *

For: rowena_dawson

Words: 906

Genre: Angst, Romance

Characters/Pairings: Morgan/Reid

Summary: My coffee continued to taste just right, and our routine slowly fell into place.

Author's Notes: When you write a drabble in the first person (or in any POV, really), it's hard not to go on for pages at a time because the human mind doesn't think about issues like romance so concisely. There was so much I wanted to do with this story, but unfortunately I was really trying to stick to my one-page limit, so I cut out one of the main parts. Maybe someday! Also, I don't really _do_ sappy romance stuff like I did back in the day. The result is a less smooch story that focuses more on the "leading up to" than the grand finale, if you dig what I'm shovelin'.

* * *

01.

For the last eight months I have stood in front of the mirror every morning and straightened my tie and thought that something must be wrong with me. Well, okay—I suppose that's not a very good way of explaining it, because there's quite a lot wrong with all of us; one's bound to be a least a little off when you spend your days with your nose in a murderer's life. But even for me, this entire situation has been atypical. It's been enough to warrant some level of concern.

Because to feel affection for a co-worker is one thing. We do spend a great deal of time together on principle, and I couldn't really imagine a life both without Derek Morgan and with a sense of normality. But feeling… a little more than platonic affection—or even a _lot_ more, if I think about it, for someone who I can consider the closest thing to a friend that I've ever had…

Like I said. Something must be wrong.

The changes to which I refer happened so gradually that I would have missed it in the beginning, were I not trained to notice such things. The first indication was that, on the mornings where I trudged in to work late or had to drag myself in without proper caffeination, Morgan would suddenly appear at my desk. He'd sweep all my carefully-sorted paperwork aside to fix himself a makeshift seat, pressing a cup of coffee into my hands. The gesture itself wasn't wholly remarkable—and at the time I'd simply look up at him, groggily, and think "my savior"—but somewhere along the line, I realized that he always fixed my coffee the right way (eight scoops of sugar, three second's worth of cream pouring, stir for at least thirty seconds). This revelation I at first attributed to overanalyzing. Coffee is coffee, is it not? But my coffee continued to taste just right, and our routine slowly fell into place.

I began to leave a spot on the edge of my desk so that he could sit down without wasting the precious seconds it takes to clear a seat. The touches came next, hesitant at first—a brush against my shoulder in passing, casual but frequent enough so that he seemed to be asking, "Is this okay?" Originally I didn't respond. I became convinced that I was losing my mind a little ahead of schedule. When those sorts of moments persisted, however, the diligent voice in the back of my head urged me to follow. So I reciprocated, though doing so often put me on such an edge that Prentiss recommended I "lay off the caffeine for a while." There was a sense of potential hazard, just barely weaker than the thrill I for some reason got when he tugged on my scarf one day and said the purple was definitely my color. The others had laughed at his jest, of course, and I responded with some dry remark that I for some reason cannot recall, but again, something was _there_. If I was crazy, the condition had certainly begun to manifest itself in an interesting manner.

Somewhere in the late season, right at the point where Virginia nights become cool and the days remain warm, we had a case that ended badly. The UnSub committed suicide by cop and the only surviving victim, unable to feel any sense of justice for his lost family, overdosed on heroin and died before we could get him into the ambulance. I always begin to think, in these situations, about my own… struggles. I don't know, really.

I always start to see myself in the victims—strung out, slumped in the corner where two walls meet. As if I could slip into the crack and disappear.

Morgan and I went for a drive that night. I sat, unspeaking and counting mailboxes from the passenger seat. I tried not to look left whenever he glanced in my direction. Sipped my coffee and tried not to note that he had perfected my recipe. Did my best to not respond when he assured me that I had done everything right. I held by breath when he reached over and set a hand on my knee.

"If you ever need someone… I'll always be here, Reid."

I set my jaw and nodded and waited for him to move his hand. And when he didn't, the best response I could manage was to put my hand over his and squeeze it, just a little, and keep counting mailboxes as they passed by the window.

I suppose I could be wrong about everything that's happened. It would be difficult to say for certain, even in the best case scenario. But I've decided that I really don't care just how crazy I may seem. I _know_ behavior, and I know that if Morgan is any good at his job, he'll have realized it, too. Wordless conversation can only go so far because one cannot speak so many words with the eyes as one can with the mouth. This… speaking with gestures act we've been performing… it's more of a hurdle than I need in my life just now.

So this morning, I'm standing before the mirror and straightening my tie just the same as always. Except instead of wondering if something is wrong with me, I have finally come to believe that today is the day.

x

_Fin._


	2. Chapter 2

For: Pabzi

Words: 796

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Characters/Ships: Gideon, ensemble

Summary: Chess isn't a cure-all, so Jason looks to find additional coping methods.

Author's Notes: l3petitemort posted a story called "Doppelganger" that took grammar rules and threw them out the window (in a most spectacularly stylish fashion). I basically spent a good deal of time trying to absorb that writing style before I wrote this story. I utterly failed. BUT, I still like how this one turned out, so it's all good. As a side note, I'd like to mention that this was the only request out of seven that was 100% gen. So this also served as a nice break between shippier stories (hence the complete lack of shipping here).

* * *

02.

They deal with a lot of real sickos. They follow the steps and do the math and try to direct their impulses and delusions on some target that won't shriek and cry and bleed. At some point, Jason begins to realize that he's losing control of his own impulses. Namely the one that tells him to drop everything and get the hell out of here before he loses it.

He starts self-therapy by doing everything his therapist told him to do after he blew up six of his agents. Eating right, writing things down, controlling panic attacks by breathing deep and identifying objects around his house in a monotone ("That's a fork. That's a knife. That's a padlock, turned to the left so the deadbolt is drawn. That's a knife."). He plays a lot of chess. When he's feeling reckless, he plays against the robots in his computer. Sometimes he sets up a board on his scrubbed kitchen table and plays against himself. Usually, he wins. Sometimes he doesn't. More than the other ways, though, he likes to play chess with Spencer, because it means that two minds are thinking so hard on one common objective that, at some point, they seem to merge into one. The idea baffles and entices him; two agents sitting together and reflecting on nothing but their past and future moves across the board. It seems almost impossible, but it happens. Playing chess is good for Spencer because it keeps him from thinking about dilaudid. It's good for Jason because it makes him believe, for a few precious minutes or hours, that there is some level of order in his life.

Chess isn't a cure-all, however. He still finds himself waking up at odd hours, so sodden with sweat from face to feet that he can't tell for sure if he's started to sob in his sleep again. Control becomes one cold shower after another. Chewable caffeine tablets and riffling through his Book of the Saved to make sure the good parts actually happened.

He asks the others how they cope with the stress of the job. He corners them when they're alone during a case or if they're the last ones in the office at night. _It's just a question, I'm not analyzing you. I just read a book is all, and I'm curious_. Morgan says that music helps him to unwind. Prentiss sits with her fingers twisted in her lap and admits that she goes for more pedicures than the average woman. Hotch has his family to look after, when they're not looking after him. JJ says that she doesn't really have one way—she likes to read and cook, though. Spencer looks across the chessboard and responds that he's probably not the best person to ask about healthful stress-control methods.

More than once, Jason wishes he could be like Spencer. He wishes he could just shoot up and lose himself, too. But that's not really an option.

Jason looks at his bleary-eyed reflection in the mirror when he gets home. It blinks back at him and asks_, So what will it be? Pedicure or cookbook? _He laughs. Then he goes to the kitchen and cooks crepes in sweatpants and bare feet, and eats them with slices of banana because he had the strawberries with his cereal at seven the morning before, almost twenty hours ago. The part of his mind conditioned to never leave the office wonders if an UnSub has ever sat down to breakfast at two-forty-seven in the morning.

Jason doesn't like to believe so. He thinks of Morgan in headphones, of Prentiss with her feet in a hot bath. Hotch and his wife and son. JJ reading some trashy Irish romance novel and giggling at the sappy parts. He thinks of Spencer on a couch somewhere, the light of a television bathing his face in moving lines of gray while tiny red pinpricks of blood rise up on his forearm.

A part of him doesn't leave. It went up in smoke with his six agents and went down with him when he had his "major depressive episode" (they don't call them nervous breakdowns anymore). But it doesn't _leave_.

He's never seen a bird-watcher turn into a serial killer, but he looks at the painted image of a blue jay that sits over his microwave and wonders if a murderer has ever stopped to flip through the glossy pages of _Birders World Magazine_. He tells himself that it's not really a relevant question, and takes a bite of crepe, and thinks that a psychopath could never really enjoy things like gourmet cooking and plumage anyway.

But that impulsive side, between bouts of screaming at him to drop everything and run, pauses in its everlasting work and replies, _Yes._

x_  
_

_Fin._


	3. Chapter 3

For: Wingstar

Words: 1,364

Genre: Drama

Characters/ships: Hotch/Garcia

Summary: The headline "Explosion at Delaware Bank" accompanied a live feed of a building that looked more like a giant black cloud of smoke and flames than a bank.

Author's Notes: This was the first one of the seven that I wrote! The consequence is extreme word limit!fail. Also, since this request was the only one that starred Garcia, I took the liberty of writing it from her perspective. She's funtastic!

* * *

03.

Knowing that an entire bomb squad has been called in to aid in the arrest of the UnSub at the corner street bank was bad enough. It was just another horrible coincidence that their cell phones had all gone straight to voicemail for the past hour. And then, when Penelope clicked on CNN to ease her frazzled nerves, the headline "Explosion at Delaware Bank" accompanied a live feed of a building that looked more like a giant black cloud of smoke and flames than a bank.

"Oh God—oh my God."

She nearly tripped when she leaped up from her chair, getting as close as she could to the flatscreen without actually pressing her nose up against it. Three ambulances, about a dozen SWAT cars and police cruisers, even two black vans that she recognizes as those of the FBI. But no agents. Not even JJ, who can usually be found right in the middle of the media swarm. This looks far less organized than normal (as if the giant billowing smoke cloud wasn't enough of an indication).

When someone finally answered her frantic calls, Penelope dissolved into hysterics and shouted at Emily for no less than thirty seconds before even letting her try to explain what had caused the communication break. They were all okay, she assured Penelope (who at this point had taken to walking in nervous circles around the room). Not great, as they'd barely managed to get out of the bank before the UnSub pulled the switch on his homemade bomb vest, but not beyond the reach of rest and ibuprofen. She told her to sit tight until they could get back in just a few hours, at which point they would debrief before separating for the night.

Sit tight. Oh please.

Penelope's back was in knots since the moment she tried to get Hotch on his cell phone and got his stern-toned voicemail recording instead. For the love of all things bright and cheerful in this world, she just wanted them to be home now. She just wanted _him _to be home now, before she could melt down completely. UnSub or no UnSub.

Penelope played Tetris online to soothe her bewildered brain until she heard the door open behind her, at which point she nearly had another heart attack.

A faint smell of smoke preceded Hotch into the room. As he closed the door quietly behind him, she somehow managed to keep herself from reacting to his disheveled appearance. She could be sure, certainly, that he had held back any sort of discomfort while dealing with the press and public—and possibly even the rest of the team—but he didn't bother to hide the definite limp in his step now, while shuffling away toward where she stood with a hand over her mouth. Dark ash stained his otherwise impeccably white suit shirt. A small cut just above his left brow caught her eye and wouldn't let it go.

"I'm fine, I swear," came the long-awaited response. "We just got bumped around a little when the building went up. We probably should have known better than to try to talk him down."

Hesitant to let relief wash over just yet, Penelope said, "How are your ears?"

"They'll be fine in a few days."

"Good. I'm—I'm glad you're all right."

They stood there for a few moments, just staring at one another. She felt distinctly out of place all of a sudden, as if she were standing in front of an expectant crowd rather than one wounded man who seemed more exhausted than anything else. It was this sense of lingering unease that kept her from marching over and hugging him. Instead, she took a few steps forward and raised a hand to straighten his singed red tie. It was her favorite one, too, she thought. She'd hate to see it go. Maybe get him a new one for his birthday…

"I'd like to make it up to you," said Hotch quietly, calmly, looking down at her as she ran a hand across his shoulder.

"If by 'make up to you' you actually mean 'let Penelope fuss over you tonight without resisting', then I'm game."

"Will you at least let me cook for you? Or buy dinner? I'm a little desperate here."

She looked up to find him almost smirking, which in itself was enough to earn a tiny smile on her part.

"How are the others?" she asked, smile fading before it had the chance to really establish itself.

"They'll be fine. Reid strained his bad knee from running and Emily was the last one out when the bomb went off, so she has—"

Suddenly he did a quarter turn away from her as he erupted into a coughing fit, and Penelope let out a surprised gasp. It was one of those awful pneumonia-like coughs, the kind that could wake you up from across the house. And coming from Hotch, it felt more surreal and scary than it probably should have.

"Aaron!" Her fists clenched at her sides to keep from reaching out and grabbing him while he coughed into the sleeved crook of his elbow. "Are you sure you're okay? Do you want me to get someone? Aaron—"

She stepped forward to help and he flung his arm out in an odd sort of flapping motion to keep her from going for the door. "—Emily has some broken glass lodged in her scalp," he finished in a wheeze, wincing. He straightened up, putting one hand over his chest like it might make the searing in his lungs fade. "I'm sorry, it's—you might hear a lot of coughing like this from the whole team, for a few days. The smoke was—"

"Shh," Penelope interjected. "I understand. While I may be one extremely pissed off techie for being left out of the loop while you guys were getting _blown up_, I understand. I get it. I really do."

"What can I do to make you feel better?"

"You mean besides never, ever do that to me again?"

The straight-faced look he gave her in response said "yes" in a way that words could not have properly emphasized. Penelope, heartened by this gaze, rose to her tip-toes to kiss him on the cheek and pull him into a hug so tight that he couldn't keep a feeble cough from escaping.

"You could stay at my place tonight. I'm going to dote and you're not going to object. I don't want you on your feet for even five minutes when we get out of here," she detailed, ruffling the soft hair at the base of his neck and massaging his scalp with her well-trained fingers.

"I guess that's a fair exchange," he replied, tone considerably lighter than before.

"I would not object, however, if we decided to enjoy some desert later in the evening. If you're, you know. Up to it."

"…that does sound nice, now that you mention it."

Penelope chuckled, happy to feel the deep rumble from within his chest when he spoke, even if it was penetrated by a slight rasp. It was a reassurance that they've made it every time before, that they made it this time, and that next time it'd be just the same. Hotch sighed and, finally, after a tense day of profiling and nearly being blown to smithereens, eased up under the comfort of her embrace.

Then came a loud knock at the door, and they had never jumped apart as quickly as they did at that moment. It was JJ, who seemed surprised to see Hotch in this particular office but didn't have a chance to consider the implications because a second later, Penelope assaulted her via super-worried mama hug.

The latter began to fuss over the former, tugging at the burned strands of her hair and reassuring JJ that she knew a really good hairdresser who could even out all the damaged ends. Still, Penelope caught the small smile that Hotch shot her as he took this opportunity to leave without interrogation. That one look said enough for them both.

x

_Fin._


	4. Chapter 4

For: failegaidin

Words: 1,491 words

Genre: Romance

Pairings/Characters: Rossi/Prentiss

Summary: It ended up taking more than a little self-assurance and three false trips through the bullpen.

Author's Notes: At this point in the writing process, I hit the wall. With five stories already completed and all done within a week, I basically couldn't make myself write a sentence for two weeks afterward. For this story, my notebook looks more like pages full of pen scribbles, cross-outs, and sticky notes than a work in progress.

* * *

04.

Dave Rossi stood at the head of his desk with his fingers tapping their anxiety out across its surface. Three times he'd walked through the bullpen today, each time in an effort to gather his nerve, but for nothing. Each time, he ended up walking right past the woman in question and into the bathroom. The others were starting to notice. Reid, upon watching Dave pass by three times, had offered him advice on how to get rid of a UTI.

None of this made sense. Back in the old days, he bent a woman backwards over the arm of his apartment sofa. Once, he brought three women home from a conference in eastern Arlington, then cooked breakfast shirtless for them the morning after. There was never an awkward moment, no hesitation or doubt. He was David fucking _Rossi_. Attraction was natural, and anxiety was normal, too, even if he wasn't accustomed to experiencing it. What he didn't understand through this process was why he felt like such a coward.

He told himself that maybe "different" was a good thing this time. Though he hated to admit it, Emily Prentiss was well worth the stress of effortful pursuit. She was the best thing to ever stride into his life—in a pair of high-heeled boots, no less—and actually stay there. The result was simply that he couldn't keep his frazzled nerves bound together long enough to ask her on a date. Dinner, or a movie. Hell, they could go for a walk and he wouldn't mind, as long as it was just the pair of them together, without a case hanging over their heads.

It ended up taking more than a little self-assurance and three false trips through the bullpen. The first time Dave tried, he walked face-first into a heated discussion between Emily and JJ. Much to his horror, he learned that JJ had been lobbying for Emily to call that sniper guy… whatever his name was. He mentally promised himself that he would check his notebook for a name later on. He should know his enemies.

"I don't understand why you don't just _call_ him," JJ insisted.

"Because I don't _like_ him," came the adamant refusal.

"Who says you have to like him? He's a hot sharp-shooter who'd love to buy you a free meal, amongst other things."

Dave watched the two women stare at one another—JJ insistent, Emily mildly annoyed—and began to think that he'd walked into a trap. JJ rounded on him the moment he tried to back away, demanding his opinion on the matter because he had "some relevant experience". Dave managed to escape unscathed, but as he made his hasty retreat to the bathroom, he distinctly heard Emily mutter to JJ, "I sort of like… _older_ men."

If he'd had any sort of guts, he would have turned around. But he didn't.

The second time, Dave lingered in his office after hours on a Thursday night. Generally speaking, Emily used Thursdays as "catch up" nights so she didn't have to stay late on the weekend, and he planned to intercept her at the door. He did catch her, just outside the elevator as she was fastening the last buttons on her winter pea coat. Dave called her name from the swinging glass door. To his surprise (and mild dismay), Emily jumped. As her hands flew up to wipe at her face, he realized with a plummeting stomach that she was crying.

"Emily—?"

"Heading out?" she cut in, in a voice almost without waver.

Dave stepped tentatively forward to meet her. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah." Emily nodded and wiped the corners of her eyes, as if keeping him from seeing the tears—keeping them from falling—meant that they weren't really there. "It was a tough case."

Again, Rossi found himself lost for words. An hour of Sudoku later and it still wasn't time to confront his nagging feelings. This time, he walked her to her car and told her to take it easy for the night. Then he stood in the snow-dusted parking lot with his frozen hands crammed into his pockets, blinking snowflakes out of his eyes until her car disappeared. And the next Monday, she greeted him with a smile that nobody else could quite understand. Dave waited, and hoped.

The third time, Dave actually managed to approach her desk and take a seat without having to make a pseudo trip past her desk and into the bathroom. However, the moment he opened his mouth to ask if she had any plans, JJ appeared—seemingly out of thin air, at least to the man whose tunnel vision had yet to acknowledge anything but Emily (she was wearing red again. He _loved_ it when she wore red).

"How'd it go?" JJ asked over the rim of her coffee mug, clearly enthused.

Emily's expression said enough, but she still felt to need to add the response, "Shitty. Honestly, I didn't think it could get any worse until he tried to walk me to my car."

"Are you serious?"

"Completely."

Dave escaped from that conversation so fast that Emily didn't even have time to acknowledge that he'd sat down in the first place. He didn't care. Some conversations are just too dangerous for men to enter willingly.

The next day, the team went in to work extra early to help Hotch mop up the paperwork after the latest case. Dave found Emily by the coffee machine. Her hair was swept up off her shoulders in a makeshift bun, her frame drooped under the weight of little sleep. Dave watched for a few moments while she fed scoop after scoop of coffee ground into the coffee maker, deemed that she was trying to see how many scoops she could actually fit in there, and chuckled.

"You're going to have a heart attack if you drink that much caffeine," he quipped, and succeeded in making Emily jump for what felt like the hundredth time this week.

She cast a glance back at him over her shoulder, no stranger to the tired eyes that met her gaze.

"Good," she replied. "I'd drink it all myself, but Reid would kill me if I didn't let him have at least a little bit. Grab a cup and join the party—Morgan's already with JJ and Hotch in the office."

"Long night?" said Dave, taking the mug when she passed it to him.

"More like 'short night', considering that it's four in the morning."

They lapsed into a comfortable silence as Emily continued to tinker with the machine. The office was almost never this quiet. In the evening, housekeeping vacuumed and blasted music on the overhead sound system. During the day they were swamped with paper and people, unable to find a moment of peace even in the most secluded of spaces. Here, at his ungodly hour, there wasn't another person around because the _sun_ wasn't even up yet; most didn't shuffle in until well after seven, and maintenance was on the first floor at the moment. It was just Dave and Emily alone in the dim break room, in complete silence save for the gurgling coffee pot. Emily looked at him before smiling down into her still-empty coffee mug, running one finger along its brim. Dave's chest tightened at the sudden realization that he finally, after so many failed attempts, had her all to himself. They were groggy-eyed, scruffy, and probably short-tempered, but they were alone. It was perfect.

Dave braced himself one last time, flexed his fingers by his sides as if it were his first time, and opened his mouth to—

"Do you wanna grab something to eat sometime?" asked Emily.

His breath escaped him. Mouth ajar, dumbfounded, he stared back for a solid three seconds before he even realized that she'd just beat him at the dating game.

Evidently taking his non-answer as a "no", Emily quickly added, "Look, no pressure. I'm just sick of dining out with dishonest men, is all."

He could have kissed her for that comment. He almost _did_, but for all of his love of drama queenery, he found that he respected Emily and this relationship more than his ego. So instead, he shook his head to reset his reeling brain, straightened up, and said, "Would you like to have dinner with me tonight? If we can stay awake until then, I mean."

Emily's eyebrows contracted in confusion and he wanted to laugh. She'd spun him in circles for weeks without realizing what she'd done, and that was okay. But she was not—_not_—going to steal the reward of hearing her accept his invitation. Not after all his failed efforts.

He thought she was going to challenge his turnaround proposal, or ask why he'd over-asked her question. Instead, all Dave felt was a sheer thrill as Emily Prentiss replied, smiling, "Pick the place and I'm all yours."

x

_Fin._


	5. Chapter 5

For: temporalranger

Words: 782

Genre: Comedy/Crack

Characters/Ships: Ensemble—Gen

Summary: "No, you're not going to need backup. You're going to need morph power."

Author's Notes: I just… I don't even know. I acknowledge this piece to be a pitiful excuse for writing, but… yeah. You'll understand soon enough.

* * *

05.

Hotch jumped in surprise, smacking his head against the underside of the table as his phone began to vibrate in his pocket. This case had begun to unravel from the moment they entered the government building, where the UnSub was holding a roomful of hostages and waving a gun over his head. Shots had been fired. The team, scattered. And now he was hiding under a desk and getting phone calls when they were supposed to be keeping _quiet_—

"Garcia, what is it?" he hissed into the receiver, ignoring the look of inquiry that Emily was trying to shoot him from across the room.

"I think I have a solution, Sir," came the reply, confident.

"Good, because we're going to need backup."

"No, you're not." There was a brief pause, and then: "You're going to need morph power."

"…what?"

A breath of a sigh came across the phone line. "The roundish thing in your pocket with the words on it. Just do what feels right. Garcia out."

Slightly confused by the techie's lack of clarification, Hotch peeked over the top of the desk to make sure that the UnSub had retreated from that hallway. Then he clambered to his feet. Conscious of Emily's eyes upon him, he reached into his pocket to find the dial. The moment he touched it, a surge of confidence seemed to sweep into his very chest, empowering him to complete the mission. He knew what to do.

With the stature of a man who takes no nonsense, he straightened his lapels, set his jaw, and declared, "It's morphin' time. _Dragonzord!_"

The reaction was instantaneous. The sounds of his team's voices erupted from all around, as strangely confident and serious as his own had been. The shouts of different animal names blurred together so fast that Hotch didn't have time to process it all before silence settled once more. Then, an explosion to his left, and Emily stood up. Except that, had he not known her to be there, he would not have recognized her at all.

"Yellow Ranger, ready for duty!" she exclaimed, kicking over the remains of her hiding space.

Hotch looked down to find that he had somehow donned a similar suit, but in green. He opened his mouth to vocalize his confusion, but—

"Hiiii-_yah!_" A figure in red back-flipped into the room, followed closely by another in pink. "Red and Pink Rangers here, Hotch."

Hotch squinted at the pair. "How come _you_ get to be red, Dave?" he intoned as Rossi shrugged. "_I'm_ usually the one in a red tie."

"It's because you're the leader," Dave replied. His voice sounded clear despite the unmoving shell over his head and mouth. "Everyone knows that the leader wears green."

"Well, at least you aren't in a color only because of your gender!" said JJ, who was evidently the Pink Ranger.

"Well, actually—_uumph_."

There was a clatter, and everyone turned to find that yet another warrior had entered the room—well, "tripped" was probably a better word, for upon passing through the doorway, his armored foot caught a piece of what was left of Emily's desk and sent him sprawling to the ground.

"It's so hard to see with this helmet," said Reid from the floor. "Frankly, I'm amazed that the design made it all the way through the nineties."

JJ laughed. "I stand corrected on my gender argument. Purple, Reid? Really?"

Adjusting his helmet from where he sat on the ground, Reid replied, "I didn't pick the color, but I'm actually not complaining. Historically, purple was a color of nobility for both men and women."

JJ dismissed his explanation as she helped her discombobulated friend to his feet. However, the moment Reid had finally finished brushing himself off, the final ranger arrived.

Morgan, unlike his fellow team members, did not even attempt to make a grand entrance. Instead, he merely slid the door open and slipped through into the room, seemingly unaware that he was even dressed in uniform.

"Whose idea was this?" he demanded, unimpressed.

A response beeped in their ears, making them all start in surprise. "It was mine!" said Garcia, who sounded far more chipper than had anyone else thus far.

"… Did you _have_ to make me the Black Ranger?"

"_Yes_."

Morgan sighed, shaking his head. "Fine. At least I'm not the Purple Ranger."

"Hey, I already explained that purple—"

"All right," Morgan cut in, "we need to stop this guy before he shoots up the place. Power Rangers, go!"

And with that, he sent out a kick so powerful that it knocked down several doors all at once. The brave Power Rangers thwarted the villain and saved the day.

x

_Fin._


	6. Chapter 6

For: Blumvale

Words: 636

Genre: Comedy, Romance

Characters/Ships: Hotch/Morgan

Summary: "I thought we agreed that Tuesday was your day to do the dishes."

Author's Notes: There were several different routes I could have taken with this story. I'd narrowed it down between this and one other (more sexually-based) scenario, but then decided to go with subtle. While the other would have, perhaps, been more amusing, it would have required more development than one page and I'm not sure I could have even written it effectively. Also, Hotch is hands-down the most difficult character to write. Holy hell.

* * *

06.

"You left your dish on the counter this morning."

With my face in a box of old case files, I almost didn't hear Morgan's comment. I paused momentarily in my search, as an acknowledgment that I had heard him, but didn't answer until after I'd straightened up with a file folder clenched in my hand.

"It was your turn to do the dishes, Hotch," he went on in a neutral tone that only thinly concealed his displeasure. "I thought we agreed that Tuesday was your day to do the dishes."

"This is not the right time for this conversation," I answered.

Morgan pressed his fingertips together and rested his mouth against them, looking across the round table at where I stood behind a waist-high wall of boxes and file folders. These sorts of conversations had become more common in the last few days, often resulting in arguments about things that were actually arguments about _other_ things. We stared at one another, unsmiling.

"Is that how you're going to respond every time I try to bring up something like this?" said Morgan. "The dishwasher was two feet away. I don't know why you expect me to take care of it when you could have done it yourself and gotten it over with for the both of us. It's not like the dishwasher was full of clean dishes. It was empty."

I set the folder down on the table and crossed my arms. "It's one dish. Next time I'll be more mindful. I'm not sure why this problem is important enough to interrupt our research on an important potential lead."

"Okay. So I'll just take care of it this time. And then next time, when you leave more of your stuff lying around the house, I'll take care of that too."

"Derek—"

Morgan held up his palms, shrugging. "Look, it's all good. I just thought we'd agreed that you taking over leadership for the BAU didn't mean that it would translate into our private lives. But hey, you're the boss, Hotch."

"Is that what this is really about?"

This entire conversation suddenly began to make a little sense. I'd been aware that our back-and-forth leadership roles for the team had caused some stress on Morgan's part. There was a lot of implied conversation there. Situations where I just assumed that he was ready to take on a new responsibility without first getting his consent. And then, when he finally started getting comfortable, I took over again and that was that. I couldn't say that I blamed him for letting dissatisfaction follow us from the office to the house, but I could do without the cryptic symbolism.

"Look," I said, sighing and leaning against the tabletop. "I'm sorry if the recent changes have upset you. But I would rather talk about them openly than go through some sort of power struggle. We can talk about the details later tonight, if that would make you happy."

The crease between Morgan's ever-furrowed brows began to let up, just a little. "All right. I'm sorry that it's—"

"Um, should I come back in a few minutes, or—?"

Both Morgan and I jumped at the sound of a third person in the room. We turned, and remembered that our conversation had never been private in the first place. JJ stood with one thumb gestured over her shoulder toward the door, her expression relaying the awkwardness one feels when observing a conversation that's headed in the wrong direction. I opened my mouth to respond, then closed it again when I could not find a proper response. JJ reddened with the effort of trying to conceal a smirk. Morgan and I shared a sidelong glance before simultaneously looking back at JJ, and then went back to sifting through paperwork as if nothing had happened.

x

_Fin._


	7. Chapter 7

For: ar_poe

Words: 862

Genre: Comedy/Romance

Characters/Ships: Morgan/Reid

Summary: Morgan holds up one of the beers, and Reid's eyes widen in an apparent combination of shock and wonder.

Author's Notes: Written third. By this time I thought I'd started to get a hang of this whole "only one page" thing, but this was more like a page and a half. I always enjoy writing drunk people—I don't personally hang out with them very often, but when I do… I really cherish it. And I hope you can see that here.

* * *

07.

The tall glasses of beer feel like a good night in each hand. Morgan sips the froth as he ducks between groups and couples dancing in the crowded bar, dodging between a barstool and a woman who looks oddly like Garth Brooks in the dim light. He finds four of six fellow agents squashed into one booth. The ladies seem to be having a heated debate over the best 90's sitcom while Hotch looks on, at least four drinks in and flicking peanut shells at Prentiss whenever she starts to defend "Salute Your Shorts". Morgan had caught a glimpse of Rossi earlier that night, when the latter disappeared from a bar with a woman on each arm. The only one not accounted for at this point is—

"Hey, where's Reid?"

The other four all look up at his question, as if surprised to see him standing there with two glasses of booze dripping condensation between his fingers. JJ just grins at him, Prentiss asks "Who?" in a dumbfounded tone, Garcia looks from Derek to the drinks and shakes her head, muttering "Not fruity enough" and sipping her strawberry daiquiri. Hotch bounces a peanut shell off of Derek's furrowed brow with one well-aimed flick.

And then Reid, as if on cue, pops up from the next booth over with a half-empty pint in his hand.

"Derek!" he exclaims, excited. He points down into the seat, at the couple that he has apparently joined during Derek's absence. "I made some friends!"

A grin breaking over his face at the sight of Reid with New Years confetti still peppered in his hair from over an hour ago, Derek replies, "Yeah, I'm sure you did. Get out here before they kick you out here. I got you something."

He holds up one of the beers, and Reid's eyes widen in an apparent combination of shock and wonder.

"Ooh, is that for me? Lemme just—lemme finish this one first, Derek. One second…"

Morgan has to set both glasses down on the table to help Reid climb over the woman whose booth he had apparently invaded, and even with the help of two free hands they both almost wind up on the floor. If someone had told him a year ago that Reid is a hilarious, sloppy drunk, he would have laughed. Even if they're just sitting around at home together, flipping between Fox and MSNBC so that Reid can analyze the different "broadcast linguistic methods", Morgan can't usually get anything stronger than a glass of wine into Reid's hands. But not tonight. Reid, having finished off his own drink, snatches up one of the new beers and tips his head back to drink it down. He has to lean against Morgan's side to keep from toppling over. Morgan is only too happy to fulfill the role of support post.

"See that guy?" Reid begins, pointing at the man from the other booth while shoving his face so close to Morgan's that he gets a fresh wave of alcohol-breath every time Boy Genius opens his mouth. "He was wrong."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, he—I told him, I was tellin' him, they never actually say 'beam me up, Scotty' in the original series. Not in the _whole thing_. Can you believe that, Derek?"

Unmoved, Morgan responds, "Really, Reid? I had no idea."

"Yeah. It's a common misseption," Reid answers matter-of-factly. He takes another sip of beer. Then he gasps. "Oh my God. Derek—where's my gun?"

"You left it at home. Last time you tried to shoot the pigeons outside."

Reid gives a snort of laughter, voice stifled with the brim of the glass up around his nose. "_Hah_, I remember that. You wanna dance?"

As a matter of fact he would, but the only thing more dangerous that a drunken Reid with a gun is a drunken Reid on the dance floor. The last thing they need is for him to wreck his bad knee while trying to bust a Gunther move. Knowing him, he'd try to pop it back into place and then spend the next six months in that leg contraption he wore after getting shot (Morgan can hear it now. "I'm a doctor, don't worry guys! I have the necessary 'quirements. "). When he explains as much to Reid, though, the alleged doctor just shakes his head and mutters "Thanks, mom" between gulps of beer.

Hotch slurs something about "shooting pigeons" and "more paperwork" into his pint. Reid squirms and makes a grab for the drinks that sit between Prentiss and JJ, but Morgan holds him fast. He ruffles Reid's hair and more confetti falls onto their adjacent shoulders. Reid is smiling at him in that way he seems to save _only_ for him—that big, doofy grin that lets Morgan know that everything is right in the world. Given that they spend their not-so-free time trying to piece together the lives of serial killers, that little gesture means… well, just about everything.

"S'pretty good tonight, huh Derek?" says Reid with that look, that subconscious _look_.

Morgan laughs a little more, drinks a little more, pulls Reid in just a little bit closer.

"Yeah, Kid. You know it."

x

_Fin._


End file.
